


him that made you

by siddals



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Implied Cannibalism, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siddals/pseuds/siddals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal takes Abigail shopping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	him that made you

Dr. Bloom bought all the clothes she has now. Abigail has been out of the hospital for a week and she has three sweaters and three pairs of the sort of pants her mother would call slacks, though these aren’t the sort of clothes she associates with her mother at all. Her mother wore colors, florals, things she picked up at the same stores where Abigail bought her miniskirts and glittery t-shirts. These clothes are dark, almost unobtrusive, the sort of thing she probably would have thought was ugly when she was too young to know better. There are the scarves too, of course. She hasn’t gone out without one since leaving the hospital, except for the odd lunch with Freddie Lounds to discuss the book.

She’s been staying at Hannibal’s house for a week now, since the hospital released her.

"Just until you’re ready to be on your own,” he’d explained, when suggesting it.

He’s volunteered to help her look for an apartment when she’s ready, which seems strangely implausible to her, a leap from anything she’s expected up to now. Living with him is strange too, but there’s an odd easiness to it as well. She sees unexpectedly little of him, sleeps in his guest room and spends most of the days alone and they eat meals together in the evening. Alana encouraged him, said it wasn’t quite traditional but she trusted Hannibal (sometimes Abigail wonders how a woman so sure of herself can be so trusting, so naive). Abigail takes an art history course at the community college on Wednesdays and Fridays and comes back to Hannibal’s house in the evenings. The classroom is small and cold and dirty, with linoleum floors, so different from the house with its metal countertops and white sheets. She asked Hannibal once where he went to university and he told her he studied in France before attending medical school at Johns Hopkins. She feels inadequate, in a way, with the one course she takes, among these people with their degrees and their titles. She would never say this to Hannibal. Even now, there are parts of herself she is reluctant to expose.

She’s been present at his dinners, mostly for Alana and other people she knows. Hannibal avoids letting her see too much of Jack, which Abigail is grateful for. The opera is an odd suggestion. Even living in Hannibal’s house, it seems like something someone would say as a joke, not something that people really do.

None of the clothing Alana bought is suitable, of course.

He takes her to a small shop that sells both men’s and women’s clothing. It’s not a chain store or a department store and it’s unlike any place she’s ever been in, cold and minimal, the clothing is all sharp and sleek. The woman at the counter seems to know him, which doesn’t surprise her at this point. Hannibal knows everyone.

“You never told me you had a daughter,” the saleswoman coos, looking Abigail over as if she is trying to work out her measurements simply by sight, “How old is she?”

Hannibal laughs in that way he always does, like he’s reluctantly complying with a child’s joke.

“I’m afraid Abigail is not my daughter, only a dear friend.”

The saleswoman’s look changes, her lips pursing slightly. Hannibal seems implacable, as always, and Abigail wonders whether he intended the woman to think what she must be thinking.

“Oh! Of course. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Hannibal only half-nods, seeming to accept her apology.

“My apologies for the short notice, of course, but I’m sure you’ll have no trouble finding something suitable for Abigail.”

“There won’t be time to have it tailored, of course,” the woman says, “but I expect we can make do. Could you tell me the sort of thing you’re looking for?”

Abigail notes that the question is addressed to Hannibal, not her. She’s addressed only him the whole time, as though Abigail herself were a mannequin, only there to be dressed.

She half-listens as Hannibal explains the trip to the opera, looks around at the women in the store thumbing through the racks, surveying their clothing, their expressions, their stances. The woman finds three or four dresses for her, all dark and plain-looking, and presents them for Hannibal’s approval before shepherding her off to the dressing rooms.

He waits outside.

The first is black, lower-cut than it seemed on the hanger and when she’s changed, she opens the door and silently motions for him to come in. Hannibal silently looks over her, impassive. She can’t tell quite what he’s thinking, though his eyes linger on her exposed collarbones, her neck, her bare arms.

“No,” he says after a moment, “It’s too low cut.”

She is tempted to laugh at that. He sounds so traditional, so paternal. Her father had said that too, didn’t he? He looked over her clothing and sent her back to her bedroom, said her skirts were too high, her necklines too low. She had changed at school in the bathroom with Marissa. Other girls had been told to change by their fathers, by mothers, by teachers. It hadn’t been rare.

It hadn’t meant anything.

“So you don’t like it then?” she asks.

“Do you?”

“I don’t know,” she says, “Maybe.”

She isn’t sure she does, really.

“I’m not here to scold you, Abigail,” he says, “I’m only helping you to bear in mind how people will see you. And how you want them to.”

She’s not quite sure what to make of this, whether to trust it but she smiles and picks up the second dress off the hanger, wondering if he’ll want to leave before she undresses.

"There's no need to be shy, Abigail," he says, his voice sharp, a little reproachful.

"I'm not shy," she says.

"I'm very glad to hear it."

She slips out of the dress and back down to her underwear. She thinks he's watching her but not in any way different from how he always does, still and quiet and intent, as though he's searching for something within her. He doesn’t leer, doesn’t look at her breasts, hardly seems to notice her body at all. _He sees me as a little girl_ , she thinks, _as a child._ She wonders about the sort of women he must have been with, older women, surer than she is (isn’t she sure enough?), women like Dr. Bloom, maybe even Dr. Bloom herself. She tries not to feel it, but there’s a sting to it.

She steps into the dress, turns around so he is facing her back.

"Zip?" she says.

He does up the dress in one quick movement, his fingers ghosting along her back as he does. They're cold, and she tenses a little, involuntarily.

She turns around to survey herself in the mirror. The dress is dark red, with a higher neckline than the last. It makes her look older, she thinks, like someone else, newly born, sprung up clean and nearly unmarked.

Her hand drifts to her scar and she brushes her fingers over it lightly. It’s paler now, raised.

"I can't wear a scarf at the opera."

"There's no need to," he says, "They will all know who you are, Abigail. Why try to hide yourself? They'll only know you're afraid of them."

"I'm not afraid of them."

"Good. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Do you want me to wear this one?” she asks.

“Do you want to wear it?”

“I thought you were the expert.”

“I’m not going to tell you what to do, Abigail. The choice is yours.”

“I like it,” she says, “I think I do.”

She shifts her hips, trying to make sense of the fit of it. He moves closer to her and she doesn’t turn but she sees him in the mirror, standing behind her. His hand hovers over her neck. She thinks she can almost feel it.

“You shouldn’t wear the scarves so often,” he says, “you have a very beautiful neck.”

His face changes, curiously. He brushes a cold finger over her neck, tracing over her scar. It’s strangely gentle, but then he’s always been gentle, at least to her. She shivers.

_The taste of the food and burying Boyle’s body and the voice on the phone and--_

She is not good. She knows that. She has no right to care about goodness. ( _Danger, though,_ something in her says, _you should care about that._ )

She thinks he shuts his eyes briefly. Maybe she imagines it.

He steps back from her.

“I’ll buy you this one, if you like.”

“I want it,” she says suddenly, “I want this one.”

He laughs.

“Then far be it from me to deny it to you, Abigail.”

She beckons him over to unzip her and he obeys, silently. She shrugs out of the dress and hangs it up, still in her underwear and then changes back into Dr. Bloom’s pants and sweater.

She half-considers thanking him but that doesn’t seem quite right.

“I need shoes too,” she blurts out, “and a bag.”

“And you shall have them.”

She smiles at him, from the mirror and she thinks he smiles back.

“Come, Abigail,” he says, “it’s time to go.”


End file.
